Zinare Part 1 Complete Hausa Novel

The next morning, early.

He was fully ready in his uniform, his face tense and clouded. With visible frustration, he tried to bring out his bicycle. His father’s words kept echoing painfully in his heart. Every time he asked for spending money, his father would say:

“We don’t harvest the same day we plant. We must wait, be patient, and work hard. Go to school today—I don’t have any money to give you.”

These were the words his father always repeated whenever he stretched out his hand, asking for money to buy something at school or even for small, non-essential needs. Even though he could clearly see that money existed, not even a coin would be given to him.

As usual, angry over being denied money, he dragged out his bicycle and left the house. He stopped in front of Naila’s house, which was close to theirs. Ringing the bell, she came running out. As she climbed on, he quickly rode off without even responding to her greeting.

The speed at which he rode the bicycle was just like the first day he ever carried her. It made her cling tightly to him with her slender arms—arms that couldn’t even wrap halfway around his waist.

In that manner, they arrived at the long building surrounded by classrooms. He gently slowed the bicycle, and though he wasn’t particularly tall, she got down. With her soft, compassionate eyes, she looked up at him and raised her small hand.

As usual, he didn’t raise his hand back or say anything. He only tilted his head slightly to the side, closed his bright eyes a little, and nodded at her.

She smiled, revealing her small teeth, then ran off toward her class, glancing back at him repeatedly.

He too smiled—a smile only he knew how to wear so uniquely and charmingly—before turning his bicycle and leaving.

ABDUH DHAHAB’S HOUSE

A large collection of newly made clay pots, beautifully colored and solid to the touch, were arranged across the wide compound where they were produced. Their number was so great that no one could count them at once. They came in different shapes and designs.

To one side stood Abduh Dhahab, whose appearance resembled that of an old man—or even someone mentally worn out. Though his face still showed traces of youth, it was clear that it wasn’t age that made him look that way, but years of hard labor and neglect of his own well-being.

Beside him were white foreigners who had come from King Hammam’s domain, buying the pots he had displayed, speaking fluently in his language as though it were their own.

At that moment, Sulaim returned with his bicycle and met them. He raised his hand in greeting and slightly bowed his head before heading straight into the house.

As he was about to leave the trading area, his eyes caught something—the foreigners were handing his father a large amount of money, placing it into a bag.

Sulaim was shocked.

Why would his father sell the pots when there were still three days left before market day? What would he tell the people coming from neighboring areas and from the city to buy them? Surely, this would only bring them more hardship—forcing them to produce new pots again.

But how would that even be possible?

Disturbed, he went back inside the house. He found his father’s wife in her room. With gestures, he asked if she knew why his father had sold the pots meant for the market in two days. She signaled that she didn’t know.

He glanced at the clock in her room, then hurriedly left the house altogether.

ABDUH DHAHAB

After the foreigners had taken their pots,

Tears filled his eyes, turning them red and heavy—tears born from years of relentless labor and the pursuit of money without ever enjoying it himself or allowing his family to enjoy it. His only desire had always been the progress of his community.

He went into his room with the large sum of money.

The memory of the condition in which he had seen Dayyib yesterday, when he went to check on him, kept returning to his mind.